Destiny unwritten
by Dark Retribution
Summary: Read and see ppl! Review if possible
1. Default Chapter

Champion of Destiny  
  
Through time each age's fate is decided not by the plight of millions, but the outcome of a duel. A single battle between light and darkness. One of these great battles is well known, as the fight between Warmaster Horus and the Emperor is the stuff of legend, but the battle before that was waged seven full millenia earlier, just previous to the age of strife.  
  
Telah was a world where war had raged for five millenia, so much blood had been shed there that the very bedrock was the skeletons of the dead. Billions of warriors faught each other for supremecy of this benighted planet, it was a war for survival as Chaos was coming.  
  
Zios, Champion of Chaos, scourge of the Galaxy was in the middle of bodies of the enemy piled around him well over a thousand deep. His black blade was covered the boiling blood of his victims. His lust for the blood of his enemies was not sated though He felt his nemesis on this world, the warrior whom his Dark Gods had sent him to kill. He smirked, his once black ceramite armour was now covered in crimson and his serrated hellblade was also. His armour had mutated spikes and horns and his blood red eyes burned with maleviolence. Wading through the blood that was waist deep around him he searched for the enemy who was worthy oh his dark attentions.  
  
Taerall, the Champion of Destiny, roared his hatred to the disgusting worshippers of Chaos. He swung his warp blade left and right, each swing graced by an agonised screech and an arch of corrupted blood. How many had he killed on this damned world?  
A hundred? A thousand? More? He hated killing anything but these... beasts where a blight on life and needed to be purged. A feeling of dread encompassed him as he felt a body of a cultist start to convulse, its body tearing itself apart in a welter of dark diseased blood. A daemon had took possetion of the man and it was now taking over his flesh. Its muscle structure reformed taking on diseased bulk, buboes and pustules covered its fast reforming flesh, its skin turned a rotten grey green colour. A blade of corrupted steel was in its tumor covered hand. The perverse daemon of Nurgle struck out, far faster than its bulk said it should. The attack was dodged easily by Taerall who used his speed to his advantage and struck back, cutting the plague daemons arm off at the elbow. It howled in agony but was silenced by the blade that cut its head from its shoulders.  
  
A loud, appropriatly spaced arrogant clap echoed through the air after the daemon was destroyed. Taerall was immeadiately ready his weapon like a glowing star in the midst of all the carnage around him. Out of the piles of bodies stepped a defiled champion of the dark gods. With a huge sword in its sheath around his waist and terrible red eyes he would be a thing of nightmares to anything that saw him... anything that is apart from Taerall. The beast began to talk, its words were heavy with the poisened honey of corruption, "You must be the one my masters sent me to face.... Pathetic! Id have at least expected someone to be a threat to my lords." Taerall shook his head in disgust and replied. "You look at me as though you have already won Chaos worshipping scum! But I promise you in the name of destiny that I will be victorious at the end of the day." With that they charged at one and other, both swords clashed in a unfathomable burst of energy that flung everything but the two champions in a two mile radius away into the distance Taerall smashed Zios in the face, sending him into the ground and creating a small crater, Zios savagly swept out with his legs, catching Taerall behind the legs and taking him down to the floor. They both flipped onto thier feet and continued fighting, this battle continued for hours neither side making clear headway, the ground around them was wracked with earthquakes from the force of this titanic struggle of wills and the hate between the two was a palpable aura. They both bled from scores of gashes and Zios had lost an eye. Still they attacked each other, the fate of the Galaxy for the next age was in thier hands. Suddenly, with a flash of movement Zios lunged out, stabbing Taerall through the chest. The champion of Destinys eyes widened, hed failed now Zios had won and the galaxy would be plunged into Chaos for millennia.  
  
Taeralls psycic deathscream pushed the weakened planet past its structural limits and the world began to come apart at the seams.  
The first part to be destroyed was around the champion himself, and with his death a great chasm opened, casting Zios into the pits of hell he himself had a hand in creating. The Chaos Gods owned the galaxy now and they did not want thier formost champion turning on them.  
  
But that was the past and a new age is coming, and new champions must be chosen, heros shall be found in the most unlikley places. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Reuniter of the Dread Legion

Tynerion stood from his throne, the horrific structure of fused bone and brass shifting where his armoured weight had caused it to bend. He took his helm frome a baroque table,the helm itself wasa horrific death-mask, embossed with the brutal iconography of the blood god painted with a strange intricacy (using nothing but the most pure blood of the innocent) that matched the rest of his armour. Its trims and strange antler-like protrusions were edged with brass and the eyepiece lenses were a haunting green. His suit of power-armour was a work of art in its own twisted way. Writhing runes and corrupt icons were lovingly carved into its surfaces the overlarge shoulder plates bearing the skull-rune of the blood god and the fanged maw feasting on a planet of his legion. Chains, riveted to his armour, were lined with trophies, skulls of prominent foes, one for each conquest, one for every world burnt to ashes, one for every enemy fleet smashed, one for every rival crushed. There were over two dozen skulls across the corrupt mockery of power armour.

His face itself was rough not unhandsome and short cropped black hair sat on the top of his head. His eyes were the most prominent features though, storm-cloud grey and shone with a baleful light, the haunting eyes echoed the years of misery that this man had suffered and caused across his life. Alongside the baleful light the eyes shone with a barely controlled rage, even though the face itself was without expression the eyes expressed his hate, his rage and his utter contempt to life.

In one of his ceramite gauntlets was an ornate chainaxe, the brutal blades razor sharp and deep crimson energy played across the axe heads surface. The engine itself continuously let out a low growl, constantly wishing to be set loose in a tide of bloodshed. Holstered on his belt lay a perfectly crafted bolt pistol, the sigil of Khorne proud on its casing.

Tynerion was a World Eater, a son of Angron, one of the favoured of Khorne. He was more than that though, he was the great uniter, he, by strength of will alone had reforged the World Eaters legion, gathering many of the warbands that had existed since the breakup on Skalathrax and forming them together once more. He now commanded one of the most dangerous forces in the galaxy, and was now making an attack on the false emperor's realms. It was planned out to perfection. He had divided his armies of traitor marines, renegade guard and traitor titan units into massed attack groups who would strike the Imperium in a dozen subsectors at once. Millions would die in the initial push as berserkers landed in cities and slaughtered their pathetic population centres to a man. The Imperium would muster troops and fleets, but that would take time, and the bodycount that Tynerions host would inflict would keep rising to staggering levels as more and more worlds felt the bloody touch of the World Eaters.

Screaming klaxons gained Tynerions attentions as his fleet broke warp, stalking over to a viewport he saw something that made his black-heart's jump with glee, what he saw was the bloodied system of Armageddon.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: He comes to punish, with flame and steel shall he lay waste to your world.

As Tynerion left his quarters, a group of four warriors burst to attention, his bodyguard, the first warriors under his command and men loyal to their cores. There was Van Koreth, who, stood in a resplendent suit of tactical-dreadnought armour and gripping a chainaxe tightly in his gauntlets was an imposing sight.

Kogol Amoroth, he preferred his suit of sanctified daemon armour, and gripped a dark-blade daemon weapon in his left hand and a plasma pistol in his right.

Then there was Isadour Mikaes a man rare amongst the World Eaters, armed with a meltagun, and a chainaxe of his own of course.

Lastly and most dangerously there was Diores, Tynerions second in command, his loyalty to Khorne was complete and his lightning-claws had tasted the flesh of many thousands of foes.

Tynerion's deep voice rolled across the decking, 'To the drop-pods, we bring death to Armageddon!' That order quickly spread across the fleet, (Several dozen capitol ships and several hundred escorts) where thousands of berserkers, millions of cultists and renegades and a battlegroup of titans let out joyous war-whoops, finally given the order to join the battle for the contested planet below.

Tynerion and his bodyguard immediately headed towards his drop-pod and set the target for Armageddon prime. His armies would land at Angron's monolith and start fighting the ork filth that infested the jungle around it. From there the warriors of Khorne would search for the nearest hive city and lay waste to it, massacring its populace as soon as possible, killing any that stood in their way. To make any siege as short as possible the fleet would bombard the closest cities walls as soon as they landed then take a defensive positions to counter any Imperial counter attack, he had planned ahead incase of boarding parties by leaving at least a warband of world eaters on each ship, along with several combat groups or mutants and renegades that numbered in the hundreds.

The drop-pod was prepared, the daemon-cogitator was writhing in ecstasy at the thought of being used to spread death to the minions of the False-Emperor. The company of Relictors that were stationed at the monolith would be the first to feel the wrath of the armies of Tynerion. The group inside waited, they would be the first to arrive, as it was proper for the lord of Khorne to be the first to draw blood from the foe. The glowglobes shifted, their bright white light changing to a deep crimson as the pod was launched (several seconds later another group of hundreds of pods were launched by the fleet). The bone rimmed altimeter chimed down at an insane pace and Tynerion steeled himself for war, several warchants escaping in whispers past his lips. The men of his bodyguard were doing the same, contemplating the need to draw blood and harnessing it, taking the unrelenting fury and reforging it into a powerful blade of hate that they could use in the most horrific of battles.

The pod hit the atmosphere of Armageddon with a thunderous burst of turbulence and a chime from the cogitator that told of their almost imminent arrival. Tynerion prepared to jump through the iris hatch at the middle of the blood red flooring. The second they landed he would leap out of that hatch and slam into the lines of the Relictors. He gripped hard on the haft of his chainaxe, a dark smile cracking from his usually stern features, he relished the thought of spilling blood for Khorne, and if it was his time so be it. He would die with his weapon in his hand and covered in the blood of foes.

With the chime increasing to a fever pitch the pod slammed home, lifting the soft ground up a little and lighting any nearby foliage from the heat of entry. Tynerion leapt out his heavy form slamming hard into the ground and he span around, looking for the Relictior's battle line. The roar of a dozen bolters took his attention and he saw the Relictors in a trench, defending his primarchs monolith from his sons, The lapdogs of the false-Emperor were not even a dozen paces away, he stormed outward, a terrible energy taking his form, his bodyguard struggling to keep up with him. Unholstering his bolt pistol he sent two shells at a sergeant of the defenders, the heavy rounds pierced his unprotected forehead, blasting it apart in a fountain of gore. The defensive fire intensified, mass reactive shells blasting chunks out of his power armour and tearing through Isadour, ripping his body apart in storm of fire and steel. With the force of a battle tank Tynerion slammed into the defenders lines. Taking a grey armoured Relictors head off of his shoulders with a devastating hammer blow of his chainaxe. A second strike split another in two and he was about to strike out at a third when his remaining bodyguard smashed into the wreches lines. The men inside stood no chance under such a horrific assault. But they had numbers to bring to bear and the rest of the armies had only just landed. With another massive sweep of his chainaxe he decapitated another pair of hapless Relictors, a sudden flare of pain flashed up from the back of his knee, it seemed the Relictor he sliced in half wasn't quite dead and had stuck a combat knife in the weak point in the power armour that he wore. With a roar he swung his axe down, splitting the loyalist dog's skull open.

Tynerion ripped the blade out of his leg, and smiled as he heard the tell tale noise of jump packs, the lapdogs were sending their finest close combat troops, assault marines. Tynerion flicked his bolt pistol up, firing a single shell that caught a marine in the fuel lines, causing the volatile jet pack to explode, turning the unfortunate marine into charred meat in the process. Ducking behind the trenches cover, the return fire did nothing but get a little dirt on his armour. Then the loyalists were upon him. A screaming chainsword flung out, its ravening teeth out for purchase into Tynerions flesh. Tynerion contemptuously batted the blade aside with his chainaxe, the return stroke tearing the marines throat out. Scowling he taunted at the remaining assault troops, 'Is this REALLY the best assault troops your company has to offer? Im not impressed.' The assault marine sergeant, a marine with a plasma pistol and a power axe span around after dispatching Kogol with amazing ease and snarled, he ran forward, screaming prayers to the Emperor and the Primarch to guide his blade. Tynerion smirked darkly under his helm, the fool fought with rage but without control, he was easily slaughtered, his power axe parried, and his plasma pistol sliced in two pieces. Tynerion lifted him up by the throat, if he would have only worn his helmet it wouldn't have had an effect, but as he was without, and Tynerion's powerful fingers had severed his spine. The aspiring chaos lord used his other hand to wrench off his own gore streaked helmet, (he had dropped his chainaxe, picking up this weakling.) The World-Eater grinned, his razor sharp canines glinting in the setting sunlight, in a swift movement, he lowered the sergeant's throat to his mouth and savagely bit down, feeling the blood stream down his throat, hot and urgent, he ripped the chunk of flesh he had bitten out in a welter of crimson, to the horror of the remaining assault marines even as they grappeled with his bodyguard. A dozen of the rabble broke from fighting the bodyguard. Screaming warcrys and storming forward, chainswords held two handed to kill the creature that dare kill their sergeant.

Tynerion was upon them faster though, having picked up his chainaxe on the way there he stormed into their ranks, ignoring the chainblade that bit into his side he swung his axe in a devastating figure of eight, killing or fatally wounding half the Relictor assault troops. He felt the hot blood splash on his face, a twisted smile across his rough cut face. With another savage swipe, the chaos lord had killed all the lapdogs nearby, and, as his bloodlust abated he saw that his army had landed, and the remaining Relictors were in full retreat.


End file.
